


how to break and fix a heart in under 15 hours

by missimperfection



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Graduation, akaashi's in his first year and bokuto's in his second, kuroo and kenma go to the same university too, there's a lot of pining involved, they go to the same university and share a dorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missimperfection/pseuds/missimperfection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a second, Keiji wants to cry, cry at how wonderful Bokuto can be in moments like these, and then he gets the urge to hug Bokuto, which is followed by the impulse to kiss him senseless. Keiji quickly manages to gain his composure, and blames his thoughts on the fact that his brain is slowly malfunctioning from informational overload, and he’s a boy with an (unrequited) crush, so sue him.</p><p>—</p><p>(In which Keiji pines for a not-so-dense Bokuto, and then Valentine's Day comes and Keiji fucks things up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to break and fix a heart in under 15 hours

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://baymochi.tumblr.com/).
> 
> also, this fic is loosely based on [this post](http://ceeblathers.tumblr.com/post/134966520209/in-other-news-i-had-an-eventful-evening).

_hour 1._

This can’t be karma, because Keiji considers himself to be a good person.

He really, really does, so it has to be Fate biting him in the ass, but for what, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s from the time when he was four, when he accidentally broke the lamp in the living room and blamed his nanny, consequently getting her fired.

(If that’s the case, Keiji would like Fate to know that the nanny ended up getting a wonderful new job as a restaurant cook, and _it was seventeen years ago, for fuck’s sake, let it go_.)

There’s no other explanation for how shit his day has been.

First, he had slept through his alarm clock – something that rarely happened – which made Bokuto, all furrowed eyebrows and worried expressions, wake him up instead. He had then trailed Keiji around while he hurriedly got dressed, saying: “Hey, hey, hey, you’ve never woken up late before. Are you sure you’re not sick? Really, Akaashi, missing one day of school won’t kill you.”

(Keiji had spent the subsequent twenty minutes consoling Bokuto that _no, I’m not sick or dying_ , and _no, I don’t need medicine, you don’t have to run to the pharmacy, but thank you anyway_ , and _I swear, Bokuto-san, if you don’t stop asking questions and move out of the doorway I’m going to go and immediately ask for a new roommate — yes, that was a joke, I’m sorry, please don’t go into dejected mode right now_.)

After walking into the class half an hour late, pressure had started to build behind his eyelids, and, by the time his first class had ended and he was preparing to head to his second one, it had developed into a migraine.

So naturally, the minute he had returned to the dorm, exhausted and ready to watch a TV show with Bokuto while ordering takeout for dinner, he received an email from his macroeconomics professor about how he forgot to mention that there would be an exam the next day, which happened to be Valentine’s Day, and Keiji had been secretly hoping that, perhaps, this would be the year—

Anyway.

The point is: he’s still studying for the exam, just like he was three hours ago, and it’s for his worst class so he can’t really afford to study the material half-heartedly, no matter how much he wants to.

(Keiji doesn’t understand why the hell he has to take an macroeconomics course when he’s majoring in sports journalism. It doesn’t make sense, makes him feel like he’s wasting his time, and that thought only worsens his sour mood.)

“Akaashi?” Bokuto calls from the doorway.

Keiji collectively prays to every deity he knows that Bokuto doesn’t ask a stupid question, and if he does, that Keiji won’t lash out and fling the nearest object – which is his laptop – at him.

“Yes, Bokuto-san?”

“Kuroo and Kenma said that we should have dinner together, and—”

“I’m kind of busy, if you couldn’t—”

“—no, no, I know that, so I told them that you couldn’t come. It’s just that. You’ve sort of been studying. Nonstop. For the past few hours. I haven’t seen you eat anything, and I know for a fact that there’s no possible way that’s healthy. Plus, you didn’t have breakfast, right? And we’re going to the Chinese place you like, so I thought you might want something. I know you like the spring rolls that they have there.”

For a second, Keiji wants to cry, cry at how wonderful Bokuto can be in moments like these, and then he gets the urge to hug Bokuto, which is followed by the impulse to kiss him senseless. Keiji quickly manages to gain his composure, and blames his thoughts on the fact that his brain is slowly malfunctioning from informational overload, and he’s a pining boy with an (unrequited) crush, so sue him.

“That’d be nice. Thank you, Bokuto-san.”

_hour 2._

He really fucking hates macroeconomics.

_hour 3._

Keiji’s abandoned studying by the time Bokuto returns.

His forehead is resting against his open textbook, and he contemplates on all the career options he can pursue without a college degree. Keiji supposes he could always apply to be a preschool teacher, but then he thinks about how awkward he can be with children and decides that becoming a monk is a better alternative. Maybe he could be a hairstylist, just like his cousin was before she decided to settle down with her husband and start a family.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto drags out his name slowly, almost like he’s talking to a small child. Usually such a condescending tone would irk Keiji, but he’s so _done_ with everything that he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Yes, Bokuto-san?” Keiji says, choosing to ignore the way his words are muffled by the pages he’s smothering himself with.

“What are you, uh, doing?”

Keiji lifts his head and answers, “I’m thinking about becoming a monk.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s it,” Bokuto says as he grabs Keiji’s hand and yanks him over to the couch. He makes sure Keiji’s comfortable before draping a blanket over him and grabbing the remote, turning the TV on and flipping to Keiji’s favorite channel.

“You—” he points at Keiji “—are going to watch _this_ —” his finger turns to the TV “—and relax while _I_ —” he gestures towards himself “—go heat up your dinner. I’ll bring it to you, so you have to stay right here. And don’t complain about how eating on the couch is dirty. I’ll clean up any mess you make, okay?”

“Bokuto-san, really—”

“You’re going to take a well-deserved break with me for an hour. After that you’re going to study for another hour, and then you’re going to sleep, even if I have to drag you to your bedroom and barricade your door with my own bare body. Got it?”

“Got it,” Keiji says faintly. He can’t do anything other than agree; the look in Bokuto’s eyes is rather frightening. It’s the same intense look he has during a volleyball match, when adrenaline is pumping through his veins and he _knows_ that he’s in the best shape he can possibly be in. But it’s also the focused look he gets whenever he’s worried and a bit upset, like the time back in highschool when Konoha lightly sprained his ankle after falling while trying to receive Bokuto’s spike.

“Good,” Bokuto says, puffing his chest like an owl preening itself, and Keiji has to snort because it’s so obvious that Bokuto is pleased with himself, and then he nearly gags on his own saliva, horrified at how endearing he finds it.

_hour 5._

“Bokuto-san.”

“No.”

“ _Bokuto-san_.”

“ _No_.”

“Why do you have to be here?” Keiji snaps, glaring at the stubborn man sitting besides him on the bed. “I can’t sleep with you right next to me!”

“If I don’t make sure you fall asleep, I know you’ll just wait for _me_ to fall asleep, and then you’ll get up and secretly study. And, this way, even if I do fall asleep first, any movement you make will wake me right up.”

(Keiji purses his lips, because that’s _exactly_ what he had been planning on doing. Of course Bokuto had to choose this precise moment to be become a fucking mind reader.)

“If I promise that I won’t sneak out to study, will you please get out of my bed?”

“You fall asleep on my shoulder all the time when we watch movies together. How is this any different?” Bokuto protests, lips forming a sullen frown.

Keiji sputters. “You—you’re— _we’re sharing a bed_.”

“So?”

Keiji chokes down an agitated whine and does his best to keep a neutral, placid expression. He doesn’t know how to explain it to Bokuto. He _can’t_ explain it to Bokuto, can’t tell him that he feels sweaty and nervous with him so near, can’t tell him that he’s imagined so many what-if situations where they’re on the bed together—most of those fantasies not even about sex, not about breathless kisses and loving hands caressing the other’s body, but about them laughing and talking and holding hands, doing stupid cheesy couple things, because Keiji knows how much Bokuto likes stupid cheesy couple things.

Still, some of Keiji’s frustration must show because Bokuto’s eyes soften and he lunges forward. Keiji doesn’t quite know what happens next, only sees a flurry of limbs, and suddenly he’s lying down, his head resting on Bokuto’s thighs. He looks up, startled, lips parted to ask what Bokuto thinks he’s doing, but his breath hitches and he can’t talk because Bokuto’s face is pink. He’s _blushing_ , Keiji realizes, and when his hand starts to softly stroke his hair Keiji thinks he might die.

“Sleep,” Bokuto says.

Keiji wets his dried lips, tries to calm down his racing pulse and mumbles, “Okay.”

_hour 10._

Except, five hours later, it’s _not_ okay, because he sleeps through his alarm clock again.

(This time, it’s not his fault. It’s Bokuto’s, because apparently Bokuto is a _cuddler_ in his sleep. Keiji spent half an hour desperately trying to escape the iron grip Bokuto had around his waist, and when he realized how impossible it was – Keiji curses Bokuto’s biceps – he gave up. This meant that Keiji couldn’t fall asleep until sometime past four in the morning, because he was too distracted by Bokuto’s everything being so, _so_ close.)

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto wails when they reach the exam hall, and Keiji’s right eye twitches when he notices the annoyed glances the other students are sending them. He doesn't even understand why Bokuto decided to run with him to the campus in the first place when he doesn’t even have classes today, only knows that it’s a self-proclaimed “punishment” for almost making Keiji tardy.

“This is the thirteenth time you’ve apologized, Bokuto-san, and I already told you that it’s fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Keiji doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t set one foot into the building when Bokuto catches his wrist.

Bokuto looks constipated, for a lack of better words. He’s sweating and biting his lower lip, and his face is scrunched up in what can only be described as excruciating pain. If Keiji wasn’t in such a rush, he’d find it amusing.

“Today’s Valentine’s Day,” Bokuto manages to get out.

“I know,” Keiji says. He’s not paying much attention at this point, too focused on tugging his wrist away. “Bokuto-san—”

“You dropped something,” Bokuto interrupts.

“No, I didn’t,” Keiji retorts. “And at this rate, I really will be—”

“You dropped something,” Bokuto repeats, his voice strange, nearly strangled, as his clutch on Keiji’s wrist tightens.

“Fine. What did I drop?”

“My heart.”

“That’s nice, Bokuto-san,” Keiji says distractedly, glancing at his watch. “I have a minute to be in my seat, otherwise I fail the test, so if you would please let go—”

Bokuto, surprisingly, lets go.

“I should be done in three hours,” Keiji continues, ignoring Bokuto’s oddly silent behavior. If he wants to pout, Keiji thinks to himself, so be it; he’ll deal with it afterwards. “Please have lunch with Kuroo-san today. He doesn’t have class either, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened the last time you tried to cook. I’ll see you later.”

“See you,” is Bokuto’s faint reply.

_hour 10 & 1/2._

He’s half an hour into the exam when his mind short-circuits and his pencil stops moving on the paper.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Keiji whispers.

And then, more loudly: “Damn it, Bokuto-san, you can’t drop a heart.”

(He turns pink when half of the room shoots him a dirty look. One person even throws their hands up in the air and says, “Oh, my God, please figure your shit out quietly.”)

_hour 13._

Kuroo’s waiting for him when he steps outside.

He doesn’t even have time to say hello before Kuroo’s dragging him to a nearby bench and conspiratorially whispering, “You did it.”

Keiji blinks. “Thank you? I mean, it was far less difficult than I expected it to be, and the studying paid off in the end—”

“What?” Kuroo says, shaking his head. “Not—not _that_. You did _it_.”

“It,” Keiji repeats dumbly. 

“You broke Bokuto, and I want to know why, and I want to know how.”

Keiji can feel yesterday’s migraine returning as he massages the space between his eyebrows. “I broke him?”

“Yeah. He’s been in my dorm for the past two hours sulking. I was thinking about what movie I should watch with Kenma tomorrow – we have a date – and he just came barging in. He was all, _I fucked up, bro_ , and I said, _no, man, you didn’t_ , but he refused to calm down. He kept calling me a liar, said something like _I knew it would never work, you give horrible advice_ , and _Akaashi hates me now, he probably thinks I’m disgusting, what did I do, Kuroo_.” There’s a brief pause as Kuroo catches his breath, and then he asks, “What did _you_ do?”

Keiji doesn’t miss the slightly protective undertone of Kuroo’s voice, and grimaces. “He might have confessed to me—”

“Seriously? He genuinely did it? That’s great, that’s—”

“—and I might have accidentally rejected him.”

Kuroo gapes at him, blanching, as if _he_ was the one who was rejected, and wheezes out, “ _No_.”

“It was an accident,” Keiji weakly defends himself. “I was in a hurry, I wasn’t really listening to what he was saying, so when he said that I dropped his heart—”

“What does that even mean? How do you drop a heart?”

“That’s my point, but anyway, when he said that to me, I told him, _that’s nice, Bokuto-san_ , and left.”

“You—you said _that’s nice_?”

Keiji flushes. “I was late for an important exam.”

Kuroo starts laughing hysterically, and when it doesn’t die down after five minutes, Keiji shoves him off the bench.

_hour 15._

By the time Keiji arrives back to the dorm, Bokuto’s there, too, sitting on the couch and blankly staring at the turned-off TV.

“Bokuto-san,” Keiji says, surprised, and he stalls at the doorway because damn it, he had been expecting more time to gather his thoughts, _needed_ more time to respond to Bokuto’s confession without embarrassing himself by admitting that he’s been wanting this for the past years.

Bokuto’s head snaps up at the sound of Keiji’s voice, and when Keiji sees his face, his heart lurches. It’s blatant that Bokuto was crying, with red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. For a moment, Keiji hates himself, because he never wants to be the reason for Bokuto’s tears, never wants to be the reason why he’s this vulnerable.

“Hi,” Bokuto croaks.

Keiji nods and shifts his weight from side to side. It’s unbearably awkward, and it’s never been awkward between him and Bokuto. He wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know what. There are no guidelines to dealing with love and misunderstandings, no books about what to do with the revelation that a crush is not as unrequited as previously thought.

He decides to ask Bokuto if he had lunch. It’s a safe topic, nothing risky and emotional about it, but Bokuto beats him to it.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

Keiji’s eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, because of all the words he expected, it wasn’t those. “You’re—you’re sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have done that. Confessed. To you. It was wrong. Wait, no, that’s not the right word. It wasn’t wrong. I mean, it wasn’t right, either, but it was. Selfish. Yeah, that’s the word I was looking for. It was selfish, because now it must be sort of creepy, sharing a room with me, and—”

“Bokuto-san.”

“—maybe you’ve been dating someone else, you don’t really talk about your personal relationships, so I just assumed that you were single this whole time—”

“Bokuto-san.”

“—and. Wait. Oh, God. What if you’re not into men? What if you’re straight? I can’t believe I assumed you were into men, what kind of awful person am I—”

“Koutarou.” Keiji says it in an attempt to make Bokuto quiet, and it works. His mouth snaps shuts and he sucks in a breath, wide eyes stuck on Keiji, and Keiji regrets this, would rather have Bokuto’s babbling than the silence, and yet.

And yet all he wants is for Bokuto to stop looking like that, unsure and hesitant of himself, so Keiji sucks it up and begins to talk because, screw it, he’s going to fucking wing this.

“You were right to presume all those things about me. I’m single, and yes, I’m not straight. I’ve never been interested in girls before, at least not romantically, and no, I don’t find it creepy that we’re sharing a room together. I’m glad that we are, actually, I really, really am, because. Because. What I said to you was a mistake. I didn’t—didn’t recognize the full impact of your words, didn’t realize that it was what it was. A confession. And I didn’t intend to answer you. I mean, I did, just. Not in that way.”

Keiji halts, and when he sees that Bokuto didn’t understand his nervous, rambling monologue, he tries to sum it up into one simple sentence: “I like you, too, Bokuto-san.”

It does the trick, because Bokuto makes a noise like he’s suffocating, and then he’s flying off the couch and pulling Keiji to him until they’re nose-to-nose and chest-to-chest.

Keiji can feel the slight tremble of Bokuto’s hands on his waist as he says, “Say it again.”

Huffing in exasperation, Keiji puts his hands on both sides of Bokuto’s face, thumb tenderly rubbing over dried tear tracks, and says, “Bokuto-san—”

“Koutarou,” he breathes out, and the low huskiness of it makes Keiji shiver and turn red. “I want you to call me Koutarou.”

“Koutarou. I—”

But then Koutarou lips are on his, swallowing down any other sound, and it’s. Well. It’s a bit anticlimactic, if Keiji’s being honest. There are no fireworks, no butterflies, but Koutarou’s lips on his are slow and sweet. Keiji can barely feel any pressure, can barely tell that they’re kissing because it’s _that_ gentle, which is a bit unnerving, because Keiji’s never associated someone as loud and passionate as Koutarou with gentleness, but.

But he thinks he can get used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> [epilogue.]
> 
>  
> 
> “Hey, Keiji, I bet that I loved you a lot longer than you loved me.”
> 
> “Our relationship is not a competition, Koutarou, and even if it was, I would win.”
> 
> “What? No way.”
> 
> “It’s true.”
> 
> “How much do you want to bet?”
> 
> “Whoever loses has to do a week of the winner’s chores.”
> 
> “That’s so domestic that it’s disgusting, but I accept those terms.”
> 
> “Alright. And it’s your bet, Koutarou. You go first.”
> 
> “I’ve loved you since the minute I graduated, when I realized how horrible it would be to live in a world where I didn’t get to see you every day.”
> 
> “That was quite sentimental and touching. I’ll give you points for that.”
> 
> “Thank you.”
> 
> “But I still win.”
> 
> “You’re lying!”
> 
> “I’m not. I’ve loved you since I was a first-year in highschool, when you sat next to me on the bus ride home after our first loss and thanked me for every toss that I gave you.”
> 
> “That’s not fair! Hey, I want to change my answer!”
> 
> “You can’t. Good luck with the laundry and dishes all week.”


End file.
